


Tombé

by cryme_anocean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Rugby, Asexual Sherlock, Bruising, Bullying, But kinda referenced and never discussed and never mentioned, F/M, Fluff, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Teenlock, Unilock, balletlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryme_anocean/pseuds/cryme_anocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tombé — (tome-BAY) Movement where the body falls forward or backward onto the working<br/>leg in a demi-plié. Literal translation: falling down</p><p>Sherlock Holmes hates his coworkers. Well, he does until they introduce him to the cute jogger boy who runs past their bakery every Saturday morning. Too bad Sherlock doesn't work Saturdays.</p><p>Also known as my shameless excuse to write balletlock and rugby!john</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tombé

**Author's Note:**

> The only warnings I can think to give is Sherlock is bullied and shoved down a flight of stairs. If there is anything else triggering, please let me know!  
> THIS IS NOT BETA'D OR BRIT-PICKED!! I AM NOT A BALLERINA!  
> Please enjoy~

  
"Can I have a Fondant Fancy, please?" Twenty, single, recently dropped out of college, living with parents, will pretend this is for his girlfriend.  
  
Sherlock's eyes flit over the boy's face before he presses the key on the register and raises an eyebrow, "Is that all?"  
  
The boy drops his eyes to the mobile in his hands and pretends to go through his messages. "Oh, and an Eccles Cake, please. My girlfriend," He rolls his eyes as if that's an explanation.  
  
Sherlock has long since abandoned calling people out in the shop. Mrs. Hudson has expressed her annoyance at getting so many complaints enough. Sherlock forces a smile, "One pound, two pence."  
  
The boy pulls out his wallet and hands over the change. He continues to go on and on about the girlfriend Sherlock knows he doesn't have. He ignores him, obviously. Sherlock shucks the Eccles Cake and the Fondant Fancy into a bag before handing it over. "Thank you and come again." He grounds out and returns to his post.  
  
He hears a gentle giggle from behind him and turns to see Molly staring at him, amused. "If you hate it so much here," She starts and continues to the glass box beside him to fill up with the fresh pastries, "why don't you quit?"  
  
"Mycroft," The name makes his stomach churn, "is quite adamant about me keeping a job through school. Says it builds character." He explains, though he is sure he has said this before.  
  
Molly hums and closes the casing, "It makes juggling things more difficult." She turns to him with a sympathetic smile.  
  
"Not any more difficult than it is for you." He disagrees and that is the end of the conversation for him.  
  
The early morning rush has died away, leaving the awkward silence of the shop. On Sundays, there are few who come into the shop looking for a pastry during the time between breakfast and lunch. Many in church or still asleep, as it is the weekend, so that leaves the staff with a few hours of nothing.  
  
During this time, Mrs. Hudson emerges from the kitchen and they, whoever is working that day (usually he and Molly), are treated to a cup of her finest tea. "Molly dear, how is that routine going with Jordan? Mrs. Turner was telling me about his injury."  
  
Molly jumps into an explanation of how Jordan still dances like he has two left feet and the injury can no longer be used as an excuse. Sherlock scoffs and opens his mouth to retort when Mrs. Hudson reaches out and slaps his arm.  
  
"Sherlock you know what they say about pride." She scolds. But no, Mrs. Hudson, I do not. "Pride comes before a fall, dear." She explains and turns back to Molly, an apologetic look on her face.  
  
But before Molly can continue, the door chimes and they are all forced to go back to their jobs.  
  
"Hi, can I have a raspberry jam doughnut and a brownie please?" Thirty-seven, mother of two, late to church, bringing a pastry for her boyfriend.  
  
Sherlock presses the keys, "Sixty-three pence." She digs in her purse, red nails loud against the gentle cream leather. She pulls out a wallet and hands over the change.  
  
Sherlock moves behind the counter and opens the glass casing, pulling out the parties and placing them into her bag. He folds the top and hands it to her. "Thank you." She says before leaving. The bell chimes behind her.  
  
The rest of the day passes without a hitch and Sherlock leaves at seven feeling like he has wasted his only day off. Not that he should be taking days off.  
  
"You don't work Saturday mornings at Mrs. Hudson's, do you?" Irene says as way of greeting when she sees him walk into the studio Monday.  
  
Sherlock sneers and drops the floor for warmup, "I don't have time to mess around, unlike some dancers I know."  
  
Irene follows the suit and rolls her eyes, "You're just bitter that you get shit time off."  
  
Sherlock doesn't say anything, only purses his lips and waits for the point.  
  
"I only wanted to know if you've seen  _him_." Irene moves into his personal space, forcing Sherlock to lean away.  
  
"I have no idea what you are referencing." Sherlock tries to ignore her and stands to continue his stretching.  
  
"Oh my god, Molly hasn't told you about-"  
  
"I haven't told who about what?" Molly walks in and sets her stuff down.  
  
"You haven't told Sherlock about the jogger." Irene says and Sherlock watches them with little interest.  
  
Molly's face turns pink, "O-oh. I didn't really think… well I wasn't sure I should…" She trails off awkwardly.  
  
Irene opens her mouth to say something when Sherlock interrupts, "I really could not care less about 'the jogger'. Let's focus on our dance."

* * *

Months pass and Sherlock obviously deletes the conversation he and Irene had in the studio. He is sitting in Chemistry when his mobile goes off in his pocket, the vibration tickling the muscles in his thigh. He pulls it out and hides it under the desk. Mrs. Turner wants Molly to go in early on Saturday morning to practise her solo. She needs someone to cover for her. Apparently, Sherlock is the only option.  
  
He wants to say no. He has no typed out on his phone and ready to send when he thinks that she would do it for him. She would do it for him and so, as society dictates, he has to do so for her as well. He lets out a put upon sigh and sends that yes he can cover for her.  
  
"Holmes!" The boy behind him hisses, throwing a paper ball at his head.  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes evenly, calming down until he can turn without getting himself expelled. The boy, Moran, is smiling at him cruelly. He shoves his lesson book into his chest, "Finish it by tomorrow." And the bell rings, leaving Sherlock with double homework and dance that night.

* * *

  
Waking up early Saturday morning is no stranger to Sherlock. He usually gets up to practise without worrying about the other dancers in his way. He then spends the rest of the day learning a solo or helping the younger dancers. So getting up to work on Saturday is not hard.  
  
Irene, however, looks like she has been hit by a truck. "Late night?" Sherlock mumbles as he pushes past her.  
  
"Sherlock! Molly didn't mention you were covering for her." She says and follows him into the back.  
  
"Molly doesn't mention a lot of things." He shucks his coat and scarf, hanging them on the hook before grabbing an apron.  
  
"I always knew Molly would come in handy one day." Irene pronounces mostly to herself.  
  
Sherlock ignores her and heads back out to the front. "You would think at five in the morning no one would be awake and yet here they are, lining up at the door." Irene grumbles and goes to unlock the entrance. She turns the sign to open and heads back to the counter with him.  
  
"The magic of Mrs. Hudson's baking." Sherlock watches as customers stream into the shop. Their orders are lengthy and their attitudes are a pain.  
  
"Sherlock oh my god!" Irene squeals and grips his arm. She bounces up and down and stares obnoxiously out the window. Sherlock, being taller than almost everyone, easily sees out the window. "Oh my god he is such a fucking-" She cuts herself off as a new customer approaches the counter. "Shut up." She hisses under breath as the door opens and chimes.  
  
"Let go of my arm." He pulls himself out of Irene's grip.  
  
The customer looks between them before spouting off her order. Sherlock, without the help of Irene, gets her order. "It would be so great if you could help me out." He snarls as a boy steps up to the counter.  
  
Irene smacks his chest twice and makes a noise in the back of her throat. Sherlock is disgusted to be seen with her.  
  
He pushes her away and turns to Blue Eyes, "Your order?"  
  
"Oh, right." His smile is embarrassed and he fists his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It is a dark red that Sherlock thinks looks good on him. "Uh… I've never been here," He looks around, awkward, his blond hair falling into his eyes which he has to push away, "what's good?" His eyes return to Sherlock.  
  
Irene makes another noise and she sounds like she's choking. "Uh, the Eccles Cakes are a favourite amongst… people. Also the Victoria Sponge."  
  
The boy stares at the cakes behind the glass and seems to be debating. Twenty, studying at Bart's to be a doctor, rugby captain, just broke up with his girlfriend, jogs every Saturday morning. "I'll have one of each, then." He smiles wide and Sherlock tries to deduce him further.   
  
Sherlock looks down and presses the keys, "One pound, six pence." He says and watches as the boy fishes out a wallet from the pocket of his jeans. He hands Sherlock the change and stands back as he watches. Sherlock grabs a bag and the tongs before getting both pastries.   
  
Sherlock hands it over and watches as another smile replaces his blank face. "Thanks." He says and takes the bag from Sherlock's hands. They don't say anything else. The boy stares at Sherlock and Sherlock stares back. He then turns. Sherlock stares at the name on the back of his jacket: Watson. Sherlock has a name now. Watson.  
  
When the door closes, Irene grabs Sherlock's arm and screeches.  
  
"Bloody hell!" He startles. "What is your problem now?" He shoves her hands off of him.  
  
"That's him! That's the boy who runs in front of the store every day. Isn't he just the finest piece of arse you've ever seen?" She groans in that horny sort of way that Sherlock has heard her create only once before.  
  
"You're disgusting." He says and ignores her. And it has nothing to do with Watson if he requests to work Saturday morning the next week as well.

* * *

  
Sherlock sinks down in his chair, arms folded over his chest as the maths teacher drags on about something or other. Sherlock is not paying attention. He tries to ignore the constant tapping on his seat, no doubt caused by Moran or someone of the like. Sherlock can't remember who is in his maths and who isn't.  
  
"Holmes!" Mr. Barkley hollers at him but Sherlock refuses to sit up straight. His last year in sixth form is nothing he needs to take serious. He's already been accepted to Imperial and Bart's.  
  
Whoever is behind him taps on his seat again and Sherlock has half the mind to turn around.  Not good, he thinks of Mycroft's reaction to being called in for the hundredth time.  
  
His phone vibrates in his suit pocket, a welcomed distraction from the idiocy of the class.  
  
_R u working tmrw morning?_  
  
His nose wrinkles in irritation at Irene's need to ask stupid questions.  
  
**Is tomorrow Saturday? Yes.** **  
**SH****  
  
He glanced back up to find Mr. Barkley glaring at him over his glasses and Sherlock can't bring himself to care.  
  
_Yes tmrw is Saturday or yes ur working?_  
  
**Yes to both** **  
**SH**  
**Obviously**  
**SH****  
  
He places his phone back in his pocket and decides that he no longer wants to text with Irene. She can't use proper grammar and she is far more stupid in text than he knows she actually is.  
  
"Holmes!" Mr. Barkley shouts again.  
  
Sherlock sighs, "The answer is four and three sixths." He tunes back out.  
  
At the end of class, Sherlock finds himself cornered by Moran and Clarke. "If you have nothing better to do than gang up on me, I wonder why you think you're so cool." Sherlock grumbles and presses himself against the wall, leaning away from the smell emitting from their mouths.  
  
"Oh look, the little poof  _can_  talk! We were worried you might be a freak  _and_  lame!" Clarke spits and he and Moran laugh.  
  
Sherlock scoffs at the comment but doesn't deign a response. "I thought I told you to do my maths homework last night, you little faggot!" Moran demands. Sherlock wants to point out the fact that actually he is a head taller than both of them.  
  
“I have better things to do than homework." Sherlock responds calmly.  
  
Moran laughs with no humour and shoves him against the wall. Sherlock grimaces, hoping it won't bruise. "Oh yeah, we know what you get up to in your spare time. Fuckin prancing around in tutus like a fucking girl! No wonder everyone hates you." Moran and Clarke laugh again. Sherlock wonders how long it will take someone to notice this time.  
  
"Sherlock!" Irene calls from down the hall.  
  
Moran and Clarke back up as she approaches, "You're fucking lucky we don't hit girls, fuckin fairy." Clarke shoves him one more time and then they dart off.  
  
"Shit." Irene hisses as she watches them run off. "Why don't you stand up to those guys?"  
  
"And give Mycroft another reason to think I'm a child? No. Besides, they're just idiots. They'll go home and get the same beating psychically I would give them verbally." Sherlock glares in their direction and hikes his books up closer to his chest.  
  
Irene stares at him sympathetically, "So," she starts and Sherlock knows exactly where this is going, "you're working Saturday mornings now, huh?" She grins.  
  
"It has nothing to do with Watson so stop looking at him like that."  
  
Irene's eyebrows practically rise to her hairline, "Watson? You know his name?"  
  
"Please, it was on the back of his jacket-thing." Sherlock dismisses with a wave of his hand.  
  
"Jacket-thing?" Irene's eyes glint with amusement.  
  
"Shut up, you know what I meant." He growls and they turn to his locker.  
  
"Do you think Watson goes here? Maybe we could track him down!" If he were religious, he would pray for Irene.  
  
"He obviously doesn't go here. He's the captain of the rugby team. We would know if he went here. That and he goes to Bart's so there's no way he's still in sixth form." Sherlock tugs the locker open and shoves his maths book into it.  
  
"Let me guess, the stain on his jeans and the way his hair is parted?" She guesses.  
  
"No, the symbol on his jacket and the stain on his sleeve." He corrects.  
  
She smiles at him and pats his arm. "All right, genius."

* * *

 

Come Saturday morning, Sherlock is standing behind the counter with Irene  _and_ Molly on either side of him. He was surprised Mrs. Hudson let them all work considering there isn’t much room back there. Sherlock wonders why he chose to work Saturday mornings as Irene and Molly won’t shut up about Watson.  
  
_“Do you think he was there to see Molly?” Irene asked no one in particular._ _  
  
_“Me?” Molly’s face flushed._  
  
_“Sherlock, did he look a little disappointed to you? I think he was definitely here for you, Molls.” Irene promised__.  
  
Sherlock wishes he had brought up Molly’s already boyfriend Graham Cracker or whatever. He watches as Irene fusses with Molly’s hair and clothes. She shoots him a look that says he should be working as the door chimes and the line forms.  
  
“One Victoria Sponge and three Eccles Cakes, please.” Fourteen, just got her weekly allowance of six pounds, is buying these sweets for “boyfriend’s” birthday, divorced parents.  
  
Sherlock presses the keys and looks at Molly and Irene, waiting for either one of them to fill the order. “Two pounds, forty-three pence.” He watches as she holds out a five pound note and some coins. He takes them from her hands and decides that neither of the two girls will be filling the order. He grabs a box and shells out the pastries. He passes them to her over the counter.  
  
“Thank you.” She smiles at him in a way that he thinks is a little too friendly before she leaves.  
  
“Ah yes, the joys of being a young girl infatuated with the handsome man behind the counter at her local bakery.” Sherlock startles and turns to see Watson standing at the counter. He smiles at Sherlock but Sherlock is more distracted with his jumper. It is hideous and Sherlock wants to ask his ex-girlfriend if this is why she dumped him. “Hi there,” Watson interrupts his train of thought with a gentle smile and a hand, “John Watson.” He introduces himself.  
  
_Breathe, Watson—John would not like to see you faint from lack of oxygen. All though, you might get mouth-to-mouth—no Sherlock! Now is not the time to fantasize of almost dying to kiss your customer._ “Sherlock,” He gestures to the nametag on his apron. He does not take the hand offered to him in fear of fainting.  
  
John is unfazed, shoving it back in the pocket of his jacket, “No last name?”  
  
“Yes, precisely. I am Sherlock No Last Name.” He deadpans.  
  
John grins and bounces of the balls of his feet. “You seem like the type.”  
  
“That’s rude. My family is not a type. Can’t believe the nerve of some people.” Sherlock turns as if offended.  
  
“You’re right, I’m so sorry. How could I get you to ever forgive me? I should just throw myself off a building. I just offended the great and wonderful Sherlock No Last Name; I have no reason left to live.” John jokes and Sherlock turns back to him.  
  
“There’s a line.” He gestures to the customers behind John, all looking slightly, if not entirely, irritated.  
  
“Ah, of course; a line of people waiting to see you and meet you, Mr. No Last Name.” John grins and then glances down at his feet. “I’ll the same as last time: an Eccles-”  
  
“Cake and a Victoria Sponge, yes I remember.” Sherlock grabs the tongs and dishes out the cakes. He sets the bag on the counter and then rings him up. “One pound, six pence.”  
  
John fishes out his wallet and hands over the coins, “Kinda like déjà vu.” He says with a smile before taking his bag. “See ya around, Sherlock No Last Name.”

* * *

 

_Was twenty-seven surviving my return of Saturn_

_A long vacation didn’t sound so bad_

_Was full of secrets locked up tight like Iron Mountain_

_Running on empty so out of gas_

Sous-sus, Rond de Jambe, Pas de bourrée, fifth position, Jeté, Degage

_Thought I wasn’t enough_

_Found I wasn’t so tough_

_Laying on the bathroom floor_

_We were living on a fault line_

_And I felt the fault was all mine_

_Couldn’t take it any-_

Mrs. Turner shuts the music off and crosses her arms over her chest. “You, Sherlock, are not focused.” She scolds and Sherlock sags. Earlier in the day he was shoved down a small flight of stairs, leaving him bruised and aching. It is hard enough to learn a solo in a day without the pain. Her eyes search over him before they land on his shoulder. “What did you do here?” She asks and approaches him. Her hand darts gently over the skin that pokes out from his shirt.  
  
Sherlock tries not to recoil, pain blossoming through him. “Nothing, just an accident.” He dismisses coolly.  
  
Her eyes narrow and she steps back, their eyes meeting in the mirror, “You’re no good to me injured. Go home and get some rest.” She instructs and then she’s gone. Sherlock stares at her as she leaves, feeling lost. He wants to dance. He wants to try it again and to get the satisfaction that comes from learning a difficult number in less than three hours. He feels brilliant, free, and better.  
  
He tugs off his shoes and collapses onto the ground. He stares at himself in the mirror. Sherlock does not think anything of his reflection, his eyes searching for visible injuries. He will not let that idiot Moran and his pack of idiots get the satisfaction of seeing bruises.  
  
“Sherlock?” Molly calls from the door. Sherlock turns and sees her in her soft pink tights and black dance shirt. She smiles at him. “Mrs. Turner told me you’re injured.” She says carefully and comes to sit beside him. “You’re always so careful.”  
  
“Won’t happen again.” He tells himself.  
  
“Well look… since you’re free… Greg and I-”  
  
“Who is Greg?” He interrupts. What would Graham Cracker think of her hanging out with other men?  
  
She sighs, “Why can you never remember his name? My boyfriend, Greg Lestrade.”  
  
“Graham Cracker?”  
  
“Yes, fine. Graham Cracker and I are going out. He and one of his buddies are tagging along and I thought you might want to come along. Since you’re not busy.” She adds.  
  
Sherlock clears his throat and looks down at the ground, “I suppose, but only because I’m not busy. This is a onetime thing.” He explains quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea.  
  
“No, of course, I know.” Molly smiles at him and stands up. Sherlock follows the suit. He looks down at his legs covered in black tights and quickly thinks against going out with Molly. Whoever this “buddy” is would likely be uncomfortable hanging around him once he saw him in these. “Sherlock?” Molly calls to him from the hall. He grabs his bag and follows her out to the lobby of the academy.  
  
Graham Cracker and his buddy are standing there waiting for—  
  
John Watson is staring at him. John Watson is staring at him and John Watson is here and John Watson has seen him in his ridiculous tights and is going to laugh in his face and is going to never come back to the bakery and is going to call him a faggot/fairy/poofter/ect. and will never speak to him again. Sherlock stares at John Watson staring at him.  
  
And then John Watson smiles at him, “Hey there, Mr. No Last Name.” He greets him and Graham Cracker stares at him. Molly is staring at John Watson, too. She must not have known Graham Cracker knew John Watson.  
  
“You know Sherlock?” Graham asks in surprise. Sherlock does not feel offended.  
  
“I wouldn’t say that.” John says as Sherlock says “He comes to the bakery Molly and I work at.”  
  
Graham looks shocked, “Well, good, introductions out of the way.”  
  
John smiles at him, a smile that is threatening a laugh. Sherlock thinks that he and John are sharing a private joke, thinking of their introductions the previous weekend. Or maybe not. Probably not. It’s not really a private joke and surely John is completely humiliated that he knows him. All for the better, he thinks as he watches them leave the dance academy. That’s okay; Sherlock never really thought John Watson would like him anyway.  
  
“Sherlock? Are you coming?” John asks, holding the door open. Sherlock’s thoughts scramble and he stares at John blankly. “Sherlock No Last Name?”  
  
“Holmes.” Is the only thing he can think to say.  
  
“Homes?” John’s eyebrows furrow.  
  
“Holmes. My last name. Holmes.” He clarifies.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, then, are you coming or not?” John Watson is standing there, holding the door open at his dance academy, staring at him wearing tights and a black shirt, in the freezing cold with a smile on his face. John Watson is a miracle.  
  
“I’m coming.” Sherlock wishes he had brought his coat.  
  
“You’re a dancer.” John starts and looks over at him.  
  
Sherlock is prepared to defend himself, his mouth opening with a ready retort of how it is much more difficult than a bunch of sweaty boys going after a ball, when John grins and says, “That's unbelievably hot.” Sherlock feels unbelievably hot for a winter night.  
  
“You’re serious.” This is not meant to come out as a question. It does.  
  
“Of course. Shit,” John curses and his eyes drop to the ground. Sherlock’s skin prickles with the wind that darts past them. Sherlock suppresses a shudder and watches John. “I mean… of course it’s hot. Fuck,” John is not good with articulating, Sherlock gathers.  
  
“I don’t…” Sherlock trails off.  
  
“Wait, you’re Molly’s friend, yes?” John clarifies.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So you’re in your sixth form then?”  
  
“I… yes.”  
  
“Well, have you applied to universities yet?” John is an expert at changing the subject, he thinks.  
  
“I have been accepted to universities.” He mumbles and he wonders how far they are going to walk because it is cold.  
  
“Really? Where?” John seems very impressed. John must have been the type to procrastinate.  
  
“Imperial and Bart’s.” Sherlock knows what John will say next.  
  
“Really? I go there. Well, not Imperial, Bart’s. It’s a good school. You want to be a doctor then?” He asks.  
  
“No. Chemistry.” He corrects.  
  
John looks surprised, “Okay, pharmaceuticals, then.”  
  
“Yes. Well, at Bart’s anyway.” He does not plan on attending Bart’s.  
  
“You’re not going into the pharmaceutical field?” Sherlock shrugs. He doesn’t care at the moment. He only cares about The Dance.  
  
“I applied to the pharmaceutical programme at Bart’s, not at Imperial.”  
  
“Well obviously,” John looks at him like he thinks Sherlock thinks he is an idiot.  
  
_Oh don’t look like that, nearly everyone is,_  he thinks. The wind blows again and Sherlock can't suppress the shiver this time. John watches him with interest, an amused smile playing on his lips. He pulls off his jacket and drapes it over Sherlock’s shoulders. “You idiot. Why on earth would you not bring a coat?” He asks.  
  
Sherlock grips the jacket closer to him, “I didn’t need it.”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, you are bloody insane.” But John Watson says this fondly. John Watson does not think he is actually insane, or if he does, he finds it… nice? John Watson.  
  
“You guys good for Speedy’s?” Graham Cracker calls back to them.  
  
John looks at him before he responds with a definite yes. John Watson.  
  
They sit at a table in the back of the shop. Molly and Graham on one side, he and John on the other. “Sherlock, what are you getting?” John pulls him out of his thoughts with gentle prodding.  
  
Sherlock looks down at the menu and thinks that he is not hungry. John looks at him expectantly. “I, uh, just a club sandwich.” He mumbles and looks off in the distance, losing himself in his mind again.  
  
“Sherlock,” John prods again. Sherlock’s eyes find John’s trained on him carefully. Molly and Graham have stopped talking and turned to look at him. “You okay?” He asks.  
  
“Sherlock is always like this.” Molly explains with a smile directed to him.  
  
“He always stares off into space and mumbles to himself?” John asks again with a grin.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrow at him, “Just planning my next murder, as usual.” He deadpans.  
  
“Of course.” John plays along. His eyes move over his chest and shoulders, eying his jacket draped over Sherlock still. His body language softens and Sherlock wants to think he knows what that means. Probably not. Graham and Molly are talking softly and John is staring at him softly. Soft–adjective–yielding readily to touch or pressure, easily penetrated, divided, or changed in shape, not hard or stiff.  
  
“What days do you work at the bakery?” John asks suddenly.  
  
Sherlock blinks, “Sunday and occasionally on the days I have off. Saturday mornings now, as well.” He says.  
  
John hums, “And you dance every day?” He asks.  
  
“From three to nine every weekdays and eight to eight Saturdays.” Sherlock answers.  
  
“What about today?”  
  
Sherlock freezes. “I am… I got injured.”  
  
“Where? You’re not limping.” His eyebrows furrow.  
  
“Ballet is more than your feet. It is your entire body. An injury anywhere is enough.” Sherlock explains and fingers at the fabric of his shirt.  
  
“You’re hurt, though.” John clarifies.  
  
“Yes, I am hurt.”  
  
“Is it bad?”  
  
“Depends on your definition of bad.”  
  
“Uh, the normal one?”  
  
“It is not bad.”  
  
“Sherlock is a liar and you should never listen to him.” Molly breaks in. “He was shoved down the stairs. He is bruised all over and it is very bad.”  
  
Sherlock startles at this, “How do you know this?” He demands.  
  
“I was there, Sherlock. I saw it happen.” She says gently. Sherlock is suddenly not in the mood to socialize.  
  
“I think it’s time for me to leave.” He stands and excuses himself.  
  
“We haven’t gotten our food yet,” Molly protests.  
  
“I’m sure one of you can eat it.” Sherlock is about to take off John’s jacket and hand it back to him when he stands.  
  
“I’ll walk you home.” He says and then puts his hand on Sherlock’s back, escorting him out of the shop. Sherlock does not say it hurts.  
  
They walk in silence towards his parents’ home. “You were shoved down the stairs.” John does not ask.  
  
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but yes.” Sherlock answers anyway.  
  
“You were shoved down the stairs and now you can’t dance.”  
  
“I can still dance.”  
  
“You came out with Molly because you could not dance.” John corrects him and turns to look at him. Sherlock wonders if he is cold. No, he thinks, that hideous jumper surely keeps him warm. “You’re being picked on.” John states like it’s obvious.  
  
“It’s none of your business.”  _Butt out_  goes unsaid.  
  
John falls silent beside him.

* * *

Sherlock pushes through the next day and he dances like his life depends on it. He does not think about the pain in his back as he does a tombé. Sherlock learns the dance in less than three hours. He feels high and even though he knows he has pushed himself too far, he is too happy to care. He leaves that night with a giant smile on his face and he thinks the cold won’t bother him tonight. At least, he does until he sees John standing in the lobby. He straightens and approaches him, “What are you doing here?” He does not ask unkindly.

  
“I’m picking you up, what does it look like?” John grins and holds out his jacket. “You look cold.” Sherlock takes it and slips into it. It fits better than he had thought it would. “All right?”  
  
“All right.” Sherlock shoves his hands into John’s pockets and avoids his gaze. “You and Graham Cracker went to school together.” He states.  
  
John looks at him in surprise, “Graham Cracker? Do you mean Greg?”  
  
Sherlock’s nose wrinkles in annoyance, “I mean what I said. Graham Cracker, Molly’s boyfriend, the person we were with last night. Graham Cracker.” Sherlock clarifies.  
  
“We met in our sixth form, yes. How did you know?” He and John turn a corner, the wind blowing Sherlock’s hair into his face. He brings his hand up to shove it out of his eyes before putting it back into the pocket. John watches him curiously.  
  
“You played rugby together. Obvious by the way Graham looks longingly at your jacket. You don’t go to the same university, so obviously it had to be secondary school.” Sherlock scolds himself for pointing that out. The awkward silence had gotten the best of him and he said the first thing that popped to his mind. John will never talk to him again.  
  
“That’s…”  _scary, freaky, disgusting, what the hell, piss off_  “spectacular.” John smiles at him, eyes bright in the evening darkness.  
  
Sherlock startles, “Really?” He thinks John is lying.  
  
“Of course. It’s bloody amazing. Wonderful.” John gushes.  
  
“That’s… not what people usually say.” He blinks quickly, looking off into the night. He wonders when it will start warming up. Never, he hopes. He likes wearing John’s jacket.  
  
“What do people normally say?” John wonders with his eyes glued to Sherlock’s face.  
  
“Piss off.” He quotes the most recent. He doesn’t do it as often anymore; too afraid he might get hurt and not be able to dance.  
  
“Idiots,” John says seriously and he turns to Sherlock. It must be awkward, he thinks as he watches John try to walk sideways.  
  
Sherlock smiles at him, “Nearly everyone is.” He agrees. They arrive at his home far too quickly. The sitting room light is on and Sherlock knows Mummy must be waiting. He sucks his lips into his mouth and stares at the offending door.  
  
Sherlock resigns himself to his fate of being forced to converse with her and begins to shrug off his coat when John interrupts, “No!” Sherlock is startled enough that he freezes. John smiles sheepishly, “I just… you don’t seem to have a coat of your own so I was thinking… you should just keep it.”  
  
“But it’s your rugby jacket… thing.” Sherlock protests.  
  
John cracks a smile, look at Sherlock incredulously, “Jacket thing?” He wonders.  
  
“Yes. That sports jacket that players get. The ones with their names on it and everything.” Sherlock motions with his head to the back of the jacket.  
  
“My varsity jacket?”  
  
“If that’s the name for it.” Sherlock dismisses.  
  
John’s looking at him terribly amused and Sherlock thinks that perhaps he likes it. “Right, so, you would probably want that back, then.” Sherlock awkwardly tries to shrug out of it.  
  
“I just said you can keep it. At least, you know, until you get a suitable jacket for yourself.” John smiles, “Besides, I like you wearing my name.” With that, John turns and walks back the way they came. Sherlock makes sure to close his mouth as he watches.

* * *

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what the buggering fuck are you wearing?” Irene demands as she approaches his locker. Sherlock glances down at her before continuing to pull out his books. “You better stop ignoring me and give me a damn answer, you piece of shit.”  
  
Sherlock looks at her, eyebrows raised, as he closes his locker and follows her to her class, “Clothes, preferably.” He mumbles.  
  
“You know exactly what I’m talking about and you’re being purposefully obtuse.” Irene accuses. “Why is there WATSON spelled out on your back? Why are you wearing the same jacket the hot jogger was wearing?” Irene demands again.  
  
“I stole it, of course. I broke into his house, stole the jacket, and then decided to wear it around because it wouldn’t be obvious at all.” He deadpans and then does not dignify her with any more responses.  
  
“You coy little shit.” She shoves him playfully.  
  
“Sherlock!” Molly calls when she spots them turn the corner. She grins, “You’re wearing John’s jacket.”  
  
“He gave it to me.” He hopes that is the end of that discussion.  
  
“Of course, I just didn’t realise he would…” She trails off and stares at him for a long time. “It’s kind of cute.” She mumbles.  
  
“What, you wish Graham had a jacket you could wear?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“No, well yes, but no.” Molly dismisses the question with a wave of her hand as he hears her mobile vibrate in her pocket. No doubt from Graham.  
  
“I’ll see you two later. Kate wants to meet up and  _talk_.” Irene makes a face and prances away. Sherlock wonders most days why associates with her.  
  
Molly smiles sympathetically, “Sorry, Sherlock, Greg— _Graham_  wants me to call him right away.” She scurries off as well, leaving him alone in the corridor.  
  
“Hey faggot!” Oh, of course. He turns just in time to see Clarke, Robinson, and Hall approaching him.  
  
“What ya got there?” Hall smiles menacingly as he crowds Sherlock against the wall. The jacket, Sherlock thinks.  
  
“Your little boyfriend give it to you?” Robinson taunts and flicks it with his fingers.  
  
Sherlock recoils; he doesn’t want their nasty hands touching something like this. “That’s funny, cause I don’t know no Watson.” Clarke laughs and they join in.  
  
“If you idiots,” Oh why open your mouth, you’re the real idiot, “would observe you would clearly see that this is not our school’s varsity jacket. Obviously you don’t know him.” Sherlock wants to push past them. Sherlock can’t because they will hit him. They will hit him and Sherlock will be out of dance again another night.  
  
Obviously, it doesn’t matter. Hall’s face darkens with anger and Sherlock knows he always responds with violence when he’s mad. Could be because of his abusive father, most likely because of his abusive ex-boyfriend. Hall raises his fist and Sherlock turns his face. He does not want to watch as it comes down in contact with his face.  
  
There will be a bruise and everyone will know but no one will care. Mrs. Turner won’t necessarily not care, but not enough to ask. She’ll always look apologetic, however. “You fucking fairy, you see what you made me do!?” Hall cries at him and then they hurry away before they’re caught. Sherlock doesn’t care. His cheek burns and he wonders if he’ll see John at the bakery on Saturday. He wants to see John at the bakery on Saturday.

* * *

 

He can still dance, which is a miracle. Sherlock thanks whatever God there might be that Mrs. Turner doesn’t punish him for fighting this time. She simply looks at him sympathetically and then begins reviewing the dance. They’re preparing for Romeo and Juliet, him being Romeo (of course) and Irene as Juliet. He has a lot to learn on top of their bi-weekly recitals. Irene had, of course, seen the bruise early the day and gotten appropriately upset over it. Now she stares at him like he is some delicate flower. He wants to shove a delicate flower–  
  
“What happened to your face?” John exclaims. Sherlock had been so lost in his own mind that he hadn’t noticed John standing in the lobby of the academy, obviously waiting for him again. Sherlock had shoved John’s jacket over his red ballet shirt and slipped his trainers on his feet, the black tights disappearing into the shoes.  
  
Sherlock stares at him, unblinking for what could be a decade. John stares back expectantly. “I was hit.” He states.  
  
“No shit, Sherlock, I can see that.” John grouses and reaches out to feel around the bruised skin. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s looking for. “I want to why or how or who?” John does not quite demand, but he is certainly getting there.  
  
“Does it matter?” He wonders.  
  
“Of course it does. I can’t just show up at your school and murder  _everyone_ , now can I?” Sherlock doesn’t think that’s such a bad idea. Perhaps then he could learn something of use.  
  
“Why: I was wearing this jacket. How: he pulled his fist back and punched me. Who: Hall. I think that answers all your questions.” Sherlock steps back and crosses his arms over his chest, the material of John’s jacket still unfamiliar.  
  
John seems… upset. “You were hit because… because you’re wearing my jacket?” He asks disbelievingly.  
  
“I wouldn’t waste air if it wasn’t true.” Sherlock grumbles.  
  
“That makes no sense.” John says.  
  
“Well, they weren’t so fond of me calling them idiots, either.” He mumbles and they finally leave the dance academy. That is when Sherlock notices that John has on another one of his hideous jumpers. Oh God, Sherlock wants to spill acid on them, all of them, and make it impossible for him to wear.  
  
John smiles at that, “No, they wouldn’t be.” He speaks more to himself than to Sherlock.  
  
He watches John and tries to understand what he’s thinking. He’s upset, but not at Sherlock, at Hall. Sherlock is not used to seeing John with that expression. Sherlock is not used to seeing John with any expression.  
  
“Stop staring at me like you’re trying to cure cancer using my skin cells.” John bites and turns to look at him with a grin.  
  
“Is that your roundabout way of saying me staring makes you uncomfortable?” He asks.  
  
“You staring doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I quite like it, actually. It’s the way you’re staring. You’re trying to read me.” John states.  
  
“Does that make you uncomfortable?” He tries again.  
  
John reaches out and grabs the hand that was swing by his side in his own. He curls his fingers awkwardly through Sherlock’s and tugs him close. “I answered that already.”  
  
Sherlock has never held hands before. Is that a stupid thing to say, he thinks? He’s only seventeen and his mother always told him there’s no rush to fall in love. He doesn’t need to hurry into love because everyone else is. Which is stupid because why would you fall in love because other people are in love? Sherlock thinks his hands might be sweaty and he wants to pull it away so he can wipe it. He doesn’t think John will take kindly to that.  
  
They walk in awkward silence the rest of the way to Sherlock’s home. His fingers twitch in John’s grasp. He thinks that he is too awkward and John will realise this and he will never talk to him again. When they stop in front of Sherlock’s door, John lets go of his hand with a shy smile. “If you’re getting punched because of the jacket, you can take it off.”  
  
Sherlock almost whinges in protest.  _No_! He never wants to take this jacket off. “I think… I’ll take my chances.” Sherlock says quietly.  
  
John hums and rocks back on the heels of his feet nervously. Before Sherlock can deduce it, John is leaning in and pressing his lips gently to Sherlock’s.  _Wow, first hand holding and now this. Irene would cry with joy. Oh ew, don’t think of Irene when you’re kissing John. Perfect, handsome John._ And then Sherlock is flailing because what the fuck he has never kissed anyone before.  
  
John is older and has much more experience, mostly—okay completely—with women. He is in  _uni_  and Sherlock is still in his sixth form. His face burns with embarrassment as he thinks of what a disappointment he must be.  _What a fucking loser! You can’t do anything right, can you Holmes?_  Don’t think about Moran while you’re kissing John Watson.  
  
John pulls away and looks at him hard, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “Okay, I must have missed something here. I thought… well I was sure that… what I’m trying to say is…” John fumbles for the right words, “I thought that you were interested in me. I mean, maybe I was just… interpreting things wrong but I swear that you were sending me all the signals. But if…I mean… if I got it wrong then can you let me know? Because I think I’m making a pretty huge arse out of myself if I just kissed you and got nothing. Absolutely nothing.” John rambles when he’s nervous, Sherlock discovers.  
  
“I’ve never-” His voice dies and he stares at John who just opened himself up and made himself vulnerable, “I've never kissed anyone before. I didn’t… I don’t know what to do.” His face heats but he ignores it.  
  
John looks back and forth from his mouth to his eyes, “Fuck, really? So I’m not… that is to say that I haven’t made a total idiot of myself in front of you?”  
  
Sherlock cracks a smile, “No, you have completely made yourself look like an idiot.” He disagrees.  
  
“Damn,” John smiles back at him. “Can I… that is to say… would you amicable to me taking you out some time?” John asks, fidgeting with his god awful jumper.  
  
“I wouldn’t be opposed, yes.” Sherlock agrees, equally as awkward.  
  
“Really? Oh, then… Saturday? If-if you don’t already have plans.” John looks everywhere but Sherlock.  
  
“Nothing that I can't get out of,” He assures.  
  
John grins, “Good. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”  
  
“Right,” Sherlock shakes his head and watches as John stumbles over himself to leave.

* * *

 

Sherlock realises too late that he still doesn’t have John’s mobile number.

* * *

 

Sherlock spends the entire day flushed with happiness. He is wrapped in John’s jacket and full of anticipation for their walk from his academy later. He is so distracted that not even Moran and his stupid comments upset him. Irene eyes him suspiciously and there is no doubt in his mind that she knows.  
  
“You there with the stupid grin!” Irene calls down the hall after break.  
  
Sherlock turns to stare at her, his “stupid grin” showing. She bounds up to him and wraps her arm around his waist. “You, my friend, have finally pulled the stick  _out_  of your arse and put something more useful  _in_  it.” She grins at her own vulgarity.  
  
Sherlock’s face contorts, “I’m going to pretend that I don’t know what you’re referencing.”  
  
Irene huffs at him, “I'm going to pretend you just said yes.”  
  
“Sherlock!” Molly swiftly maneuvers through the crowd of people and to their side. She looks flustered and holds out a piece of paper for him to take, “This is for you. It’s… John wanted me to give it you.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he takes in the paper, unfolding it to see the message.  
  
_02046232_

_John Watson_

_(in case you were wondering)_

_(you probably weren’t)_  
  
“John? As in cute jogger boy Watson? Bakery John Watson?” Irene demands, looking over his shoulder to scrutinize the paper in his hand.  
  
Sherlock quickly folds the paper back up and slips it into his—John’s—pocket, “Irene, maybe you should mind your own business.” He glares at her.  
  
“Sherlock, I’m just trying to see who’s buggering your arse.” She states plainly. Sherlock sneers. Molly coughs awkwardly.  
  
“Right, well, I’ll be off to… to… Lit.” Molly hurries off and Sherlock knows it was Irene who ran her off. Not that it is hard thing to do. Molly is very sensitive to things like that.  
  
“I’m leaving.” Sherlock says and turns on the ball of his foot.  
  
“Sherlock!” Irene calls after him petulantly.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s face is flushed from the biting air and perhaps his boyfriend in those shorts. He watches as they, the team, huddle up and discuss… whatever it is they discuss. Sherlock never pays attention when John tries to explain. He arrived late. Meaning that he is forced to sit at the end of the bleachers in the far corner where it is hardest to see the field. You wouldn’t expect a university rugby game to be so busy. Or maybe you would, Sherlock doesn’t know.  
  
John must think he couldn’t make it. He doesn’t look too broken up about it. The first match of the season—is it called a season?—and his ballerina boyfriend couldn’t make it? Probably for best, John must have thought. Sherlock watches as John and his team work together for the ball. He watches John with interest, tucking his chin into his scarf. Perhaps he can slip away unnoticed before the game is over. That way he can tell John he saw the game without them experiencing the awkward we’re-just-mates speech John will give to the others.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t care. Really, he doesn’t. It doesn’t bother him if John wants to pretend like they’re not together. The whistle blows and Sherlock is snapped back to reality. Oh, he thinks, someone scored a point? Are they called points? He should have paid more attention to John when he was trying to explain the rules.  
  
This is quite boring, he thinks. This is how John must have felt at his recital the other week. Bored and confused. Or maybe John paid attention? No, John was distracted by Sherlock in tights, as he often is when they walk together to Sherlock’s home after his practise.  
  
The match drags on for forever, Sherlock staring at John in those short rugby shorts and John getting sweaty and covered in mud. This is what it must be like for John. Sherlock does not like being on the other side. When it is over—and Sherlock makes sure it is over—he casually slips down the bleachers. He hopes to make it out of the… arena? without being spotted. No such luck.  
  
“Sherlock! Oi, Sherlock! I know it’s you, you genius, I can recognize the back of your head.” John calls out to him as he tries to make it past the locker rooms.  
  
Sherlock turns back to see John and a few of his mates standing at the entrance of the locker room, covered in sweat. Sherlock almost grimaces, almost. John smiles brightly and bounds over to him, “Where are you going, beautiful, I’m right here?” Sherlock wishes he could vomit on command. He would right now.  
  
How does one go about telling their significant other that they believed it would be best if they were not seen together? “I thought it would be best if I left.” He says, quietly enough that the men behind John cannot hear.  
  
John’s grin falls and he reaches out to grab Sherlock’s arm as if he’s afraid he really will leave, “Why would you think that?” John obviously is not seeing this the way Sherlock sees it.  
  
“Please John; it’s obvious that you would rather not be seen with me. Who wants to explain to their teammates that the weird boy in tights is their boyfriend?” Sherlock smiles drily, “I figured it was best to avoid the inevitable he’s-here-to-see-me-but-I’m-not-gay-I-swear speech you would be forced to deliver.”  
  
John’s expression, if it were possible, falls even more. He pulls Sherlock close and stretches himself up to plant a kiss right there, in front of anyone who is watching, on his mouth. “Now, I don’t know what pieces of shit you dated before,” and Sherlock laughs because he has never dated anyone, he just knows how this sort of thing goes, “but I will never deny you.” John’s hands slide down his sides and rest on his waist. “You, lovely, are meant to be shown off. And your tights drive me wild, ta very much.” John’s hand ghosts over his arse where his purple tights are stretched thin for emphasis.  
  
“Get a room, you two!” Calls one of John’s mates from behind them. Sherlock easily sees over John’s head, watching the men grin and make crass comments about them to each other.  
  
“Cheers!” John sticks his middle finger up at them and that is the only time he acknowledges them. He turns back to Sherlock, fingers tightening over his waist, “You come first. You always come first.”

* * *

 

"Where's lover boy?" Irene asks as she leans against the counter Saturday morning. Sherlock sends her a glare and continues to wipe down the tables. She sighs and glances at Molly who is busy stocking up the case.  
  
On days Sherlock works, John has taken to visiting. He sits at a table, eating an Eccles Cake, and watches Sherlock with interest. Saturday mornings, John will come in before the bakery opens and spends time with all of them. He even helps Sherlock clean from time to time. "He's got rugby practise." He states.  
  
"This early?" Molly pipes in.  
  
Sherlock's eyebrows furrow and he looks at the table. "That's what he said."  
  
Sherlock can feel Irene's eyes on the back of his head. He looks up at the clock resting above the door. 7:00, time to open.  
  
Sherlock straightens and turns the sign to open before heading behind the counter. "I'm sure he's at rugby practise, Sherlock." Molly assures him.  
  
He does not respond.  
  
Later in the morning, before Sherlock leaves for dance, John shows up. His face is flushed and his shirt clings to his torso with sweat. His eyes find Sherlock dressed in his tights and a blue shirt behind the counter, shrugging into John’s varsity jacket. John’s shoulders slump and he walks to the side where Sherlock is about to exit through the latched door to the counter. “Sorry I was so late, beautiful. Practise ran later than expected and then Coach wanted to talk.”  
  
When Sherlock was three years old, Mycroft taught him how to observe people. He took him out to Tesco and stood him in the middle of an aisle. He said,  _“I want you to tell me what you see.”_  And he had pointed to a girl. Ever since then, Sherlock has been able to tell everything from what you ate this morning to how the suicide in the papers was actually a serial killer.  
  
So it’s not hard to believe that Sherlock can tell John is lying to him right now. Sherlock frowns,  _that’s a lie_ , he doesn’t say. “Sure,” He does.  
  
John watches him as he pushed past him towards the door. He bounds up next to him, “You want me to walk you to the studio?” He offers.  
  
No, Sherlock does not. He wishes John had told him that he wanted sex. Sure, he doesn’t understand the appeal, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be willing to try. A little into the third week of their relationship and Sherlock has already been cheated on. “Don’t worry about it. You seem tired.” He seems spent, Sherlock means.  
  
John’s eyebrows furrow, “It’s not a problem, I don’t mind-”  
  
“I said no.” Sherlock pushes open the door and tucks his hands into the warm pockets of John’s jacket.  
  
John startles, “Sherlock if I did something…” John trails off.  
  
“Did you?” He hums. The cold of February bites at his exposed skin and a varsity jacket is certainly not an appropriate coat for late winter.  
  
John stares at Sherlock like he has lost his mind. “Look, if you’re pissed at me, you have to tell me. I can’t… I can’t read your mind like you can.”  
  
“I can’t read anybody’s mind. Might have come in handy if I could.” Sherlock frowns down at John. “Go home, John.”

* * *

 

John comes to pick Sherlock up that night. Apparently he had not gotten the hint earlier that morning. He does not have the seemingly permanent smile on his face. Sherlock is not wearing John’s jacket. John notices. It is draped over his arm and Sherlock instead has on one of Mycroft’s jackets that he had dropped off when he brought Sherlock lunch. Sherlock pushes the jacket into John’s chest, “I got a jacket.” He states.  
  
John stares at him. “You said to give it back once I got a jacket of my own.”  
  
“I didn’t… I didn’t actually want you to get a jacket.” He says gently, staring at the jacket in his arms.  
  
“I figured… you might want it back.” Sherlock explains and pushes his hands into the pockets of the blue coat.  
  
“Sherlock, I really don’t know what I did. I mean, we were fine yesterday. I… are you upset I couldn’t pick you up last night? You said it was okay over the phone.” John rambles when he gets nervous. He is nervous.  
  
“Why couldn’t you pick me up last night?” He asks. He hadn’t wanted to ask last night. He thought good boyfriends respect each others’ privacy.  
  
John frowns, “I-”  
  
“I already know. You might as well say it.” Sherlock wonders if Mrs. Turner will be upset they’re loitering.  
  
“You do? Fuck.” He rubs a hand over his face, the other gripping the jacket.  
  
Sherlock swallows thickly, “You could have just told me you wanted to have sex. I wouldn’t have minded. You didn’t need-”  
  
“You think it has to do with sex!?” John looks appalled. Isn’t that why partners cheat? Or did he get it wrong?  
  
“Well what then? It’s always been about sex.”  
  
John huffs and shakes his head, stepping into Sherlock’s space. “Why would you think it has anything to do with sex? Jesus, you must have been with some asshole.”  
  
This is another time that John has referenced one of his “exes”. Was he under the impression that he had done this before? “You’re one to talk.” He mumbles.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks.  
  
“Just because it isn’t about sex doesn’t make it right.” Sherlock exclaims.  
  
“It isn’t wrong to want to… Sherlock what do you think I was doing?” John seems to realise something.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t want to say it. “Cheating.”  
  
John laughs but sounds more like relief than humour. “My Lord, you are truly something special.” He pulls Sherlock into him that time. “I wasn’t cheating, you great genius.” He breathes into his neck.  
  
Sherlock is frozen, “Then what were you doing?” He asks.  
  
“No way. I’m not going to ruin the surprise. You just have to trust me on this, lovely.” John’s use of pet names would irritate him if they didn’t spread liquid fire through his body.  
  
Sherlock relaxes against John and tucks his head down to bury his nose in his hair. “Not cheating?”  
  
“Sometimes your powers of deduction are about as useless as a chocolate fireguard. Of course not, never.” John promises and he tilts his head up for a kiss which Sherlock grants.

* * *

 

He and Molly walk to class together Monday morning. His face contorts in disgust as he spots a man in a gorilla suit handing a girl a card with a balloon tied to it. A group of kids are singing to another girl in the corner. “What are you and John doing for Valentine’s Day?” Molly asks with a smile on her face as she clutches a heart-shaped box to her chest.  
  
“Oh, is that what today is?” He asks, bored.  
  
“So nothing, I’d guess.” Molly’s mood seems to dampen a little.  
  
“No. I don’t have time for anything today anyway.” He turns the corner, parting ways with Molly. She watches him, a little disappointed. She seems to living vicariously through his relationship with John.

* * *

 

Sherlock almost runs into some boy holding a large card and a box of chocolates. “Sherlock Holmes?” He asks.  
  
“Yes, what?” Another idiot wanting help with homework, surely.  
  
“For you.” He grins wide and shoves the box and card at him. Sherlock does not recognize him. Where is he supposed to put this card, he thinks? His locker is not large enough for it to fit. What idiot would think to send something like this to him? Not one he wants to associate with.  
  
Sherlock ducks behind the stairs, out of the sight of Moran and his friends, and opens it with distaste.

 

 _L, is for the Laughter I give to you every day_  
_knowing you'll never go away_ _  
  
_O, is for the Options we'll have when we're together_  
_knowing our love couldn't get any better_  
  
_V, is for the Visions I have of you_  
_knowing I'll never find anyone quite like you_  
  
_E, is for Everything that's true I've ever said_  
_especially when I said, "We'll be together till we're dead"__  
  
  
_For you, my lovely_  
  
Sherlock blinks at the giant surface of the card and feels heat spread through his body. Love. It spells love. He stands and grips the card tight in one hand. He pulls out his mobile.  
  
_This is what you were doing_  
  
He tucks it back into his pocket and shoulders his way through school.

* * *

 

John is standing at the door of the studio he is practising on his own. Sherlock tries not to pay him any mind; he needs to lock down the choreography. Mrs. Turner had left an hour ago to teach a class.  
  
_So am I close to you anymore_

_If it’s over_

_And there’s no chance that we’ll work it out_

_Oh you and I_

_Ended of U N I_

_And I said that’s fine_

_But you’re the only one that knows I lied_

“You’re a little off.” John says and he enters the room.  
  
Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow and he turns to look at him, “You know you’re not allowed to be in here.” He states.  
  
John smiles at him, “When you do the turns, you fall a little off beat. Which can’t be hard to do seeing as the beat of the song is hard to find.” John takes a step close to him and smoothes his hands down Sherlock’s sides.  
  
“You’re still not allowed to be back here.” He mumbles rather uselessly.  
  
“Do it again and don’t fall behind.” John places a kiss to his mouth before he steps back and crosses his arms.  
  
Sherlock frowns and waits for the chorus again to try the turns. He looks to John for approval when his foot falls flat on the floor. John smiles at him, “Much better. See, I’m valuable.”  
  
“You are not allowed to sit in on my dances.” He realises what John is trying to do.  
  
John ignores his protest and wraps his arms around him, pulling him down to place a kiss against his skin again. “It’s Valentine’s Day, let’s go out.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and rubs his thumb over his knuckles.  
  
“I have to finish this song.” Sherlock denies.  
  
“Come on, lovely. I want to treat you to dinner before it’s ‘too late’.” He mocks Sherlock’s aversion to eating later than nineteen hundred hours.  
  
He sighs and gives in, “Yes, fine, whatever.”  
  
“Don’t sound so excited, Sherlock.” John grins and grips his hand a little tighter.

* * *

 

Tights are thin. They are thin and they should not be worn to boyfriends’ rugby practises. The cold metal of the bleachers beneath his legs is not what Sherlock was wanting to experience. He tucks his hands into John’s jacket and brings his legs up to conserve heat. They, John’s teammates, continuously look back at him and make some sort of comment to John that always makes him yell at them in embarrassment. Sherlock wonders, for a brief second, if he is embarrassed of him. But then John will grin at him or blow him a kiss in his ridiculous way and that thought will fly out the window.  
  
John’s rugby shorts are wonderful and they draw Sherlock’s eyes to his strong thighs and wonderful arse. And it doesn’t help that John seems entirely distracted by his tights.  
  
“Well hello there. Do you come here often?” John’s eyebrows raise and he leans against the wall beside where Sherlock is sitting. John is covered in sweat and Sherlock thinks he must be grateful that practise is over.  
  
Sherlock keeps a straight face, playing along, “Should I be impressed with that overused pick up line?” He snorts and turns his face.  
  
“I’m impressed with your pain tolerance.”  
  
Sherlock has no idea where this is going. He turns to look at John in confusion.  
  
“It must have hurt when you-”  
  
“Fell from heaven?!” Sherlock sputters a laugh.  
  
John frowns, “No. When you crawled out of hell.”  
  
Sherlock does laugh at that. He laughs and laughs. “You are awful.” He decides and stands. John’s eyes are caught on his legs. “Eyes are up here.” He says, annoyed.  
  
John’s eyes snap up and he smiles sheepishly, “Sorry, beautiful.”

* * *

 

The recital is one of their bests. Sherlock is buzzing with nerves after the show ends, anxious to see how John thought he did. (John always tells him he did marvelous, fantastic, brilliant, wonderful, beautifully, perfect, amazing, ect.) He shrugs into John’s rugby jacket and pulls open the door to his dressing room. “Hi there.” John breathes.  
  
“Hello.” Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest.  
  
“You were… beyond words in the English language. You were more beautiful than I have ever seen you. You were perfect and better than I have ever thought you could be. I’m so proud.” And John is proud. He is puffing out his chest like he’ll have to fend off the lads now that Sherlock has gotten off the stage. Have you ever seen someone interested in me, John? Sherlock will not ask.  
  
“Thank you,” He says as John leans in for a kiss.  
  
John’s fingers curl around Sherlock’s hipbones and he presses closer to him. Their chests are flush, as well as their genitals. John is half-hard against him. Sherlock knows he is not disappointed that Sherlock is not.  
  
Sherlock pulls away a little, “I love you.” He says as if he’s been saying it his entire life.  
  
John stares at him and smiles, “I love you, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing this so much. I am so sorry if these characters are horribly out of character and you hated it. I would appreciate it, if you did hate it, if you would please comment and let me know, nicely, what I need to work on! If I get enough interest in this, I might write John's side.  
> Come to my [tumblr ](http://guessiliedinthehook.tumblr.com/)! I accept prompts ALL THE TIME!! Just shoot me a message or leave me a comment here.  
> Songs: By the Grace of God - Katy Perry  
> U.N.I - Ed Sheeran  
> Poem: L.O.V.E - Jeremy Vega


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